The Most Unlikely of Heroes
by Kathi With An I
Summary: She can't escape her past, he can't escape his future. A Breton mystic and a Bosmer assassin are forced by circumstance or quite possibly destiny into an impossible task: saving Tamriel from the Daedric Prince of Desctruction himself. F!OC/Martin Septim. Follows Main Quest, Shivering Isles, Mage's Guild, and Dark Brotherhood.
1. Prologue - Red Handed

**A/N - Guess who's back. Back again. Kathi's back. Tell a friend.**

**I'm going to be honest, I completely intended on just abandoning Unlikely Heroes. I had a lot of real life stuff to deal with, and writing didn't bring me as much joy anymore. But then one day I was chatting with my girlfriend (yeah, flighty, messed-up Kathi managed to end up in a stable and happy romantic relationship, explain that miracle of nature) and I mentioned this fanfic I used to write. She's really into fanfiction (though she doesn't write any herself) and she wanted to see it, so I dug it up and showed it to her.**

**And, well... it was a lot worse than I had remembered it being. A nostalgia session turned into a riffing session, and eventually along the way I decided I wanted to get back into it and rewrite the damned thing. So, here we are. My girlfriend, who shall be known to you lot as "Cherry," will be my lovely beta reader during the thing, and she's really good at all of that, so I'm pretty sure that this rewrite is going to be miles better than the old Unlikely Heroes ever hoped to be.**

**I'm going to keep the old UH up for a while, though, at least until I catch up in this version. Mostly because that's the only place where you can find the actual fic itself, but partly for you guys to do a compare+contrast sort of thing, see how I've improved with your own eyes.**

**And, with that, well, let's get started. Thank you to Cherry for being amazing and a great beta reader throughout this! (heart dot png)**

* * *

_The Twelfth of Sun's Height, 3E433_

* * *

They found the Breton in the far corner of the tomb, her hands stained crimson.

One of the cemetery groundskeepers had heard the screaming as he walked past. Thinking the place haunted and his doom secured, he all but wet himself in terror and fled to the nearest guard tower, screaming about "the banshee in the Trentius mausoleum."

The guards in the tower had been on break, eating a midnight meal to help them through the rest of their shift. As such, they had been more than a little displeased at the seemingly drunken man bursting in, shouting obscenities about ghosts and apparitions. Despite their displeasure, they went to investigate the man's claims, if only to get him to shut up. They expected to see nothing, or perhaps some foolish youth playing a prank on whoever would walk by.

What they saw was far more horrifying.

The inside of the mausoleum was covered in blood, the olden stone walls saturated with red. The candelabra in the middle of the room had been knocked over, recently-place candles rolling in a puddle of blood. Two corpses lay on the icy stone of the ground, both in different yet eerily similar states of being. One was rotted with age, its dry skin pulled tightly over its bones, its face warped into a permanent grimace. The other was far fresher, but far messier. Once glance from the guards could determine that this corpse was where most of the blood in the mausoleum had come from. The stature of the body suggested that whoever had died had been a male Altmer, but the face and neck were so badly torn and shredded that is was impossible to glean anything else about his identity. The stomach of the dead Altmer had been ripped open, his entrails spilling out beside him. The youngest of the guards had to quickly run outside, lest he further desecrate the tomb with his vomit.

What was perhaps the most horrifying was the source of the screaming. The troubled wails came not from any spirit or shambling corpse, but from a living, breathing woman. A Breton, slight of figure and dark of hair, was huddled in the furthest corner of the mausoleum, as far away from the fresher corpse as she could manage. Her eyes were as wide and as round as septims, her cheeks were stained with tears, ash and blood, and she had her arms wrapped around her small form as if trying to keep herself from falling apart.

It was the eldest of the guards who approached the Breton, sheathing her sword and taking a few cautious steps forward. "Miss," she said, firmly but with a hint of apprehension in her voice. "Miss, I need you to look at me. Can you tell me who did this?"

The Breton jumped at the sound of the guard's voice, her gaze snapping upwards with an expression of shock on her face that suggested she hadn't even noticed the guards enter the tomb. Her lips parted. "What?"

The eldest guard knelt down, locking gazes with the Breton. The latter had particularly striking eyes; a light hazel, almost golden in hue. "Can you tell me who did this?" the guard repeated quietly, gesturing towards the carnage.

The guard didn't think it possible, but the Breton shrunk back even _further_, a quiet cry escaping her lips. "I..." Her voice shook and cracked, tears steadily streaming down her face. "I didn't want to... I _knew_ it would be dangerous, I knew he was concerned about what I was doing, I didn't want him getting hurt, I told him not to follow me, I didn't... I didn't _want_ this." She she lifted her hands to her head, running them through her hair. "All I wanted was to get stronger. I... he's shouldn't have..." Her voice broke, and she started sobbing.

The guard cursed and took a few steps back. "You!" she snapped to the groundskeeper, who was quaking in his boots. "Get the nearest watch captain. Hurry!" She turned her gaze back to the Breton, who has returned to her original state.

What had possessed such a frail and unassuming woman to commit such an act?

* * *

_The Twentieth of Last Seed, 3E433_

* * *

They found the Bosmer just outside the store, a lockpick in his leather-clad hands

It was a remarkably clear night; both moons were full and shining brightly, illuminating the streets of the market district and all but eliminating the need for a torch. In fact, the guard who caught the Bosmer would later cite his lack of a torch as the primary reason for being able to sneak up on the latter in the first place.

Even from a distance, it had been easy to tell just exactly why the elf was trying to break into the Copius Coinpurse in the dark of night. His black, close-fitting leather, a sharp silhouette in the moonlight, could only belong to one profession, and everyone knew that most of the Market District had a grudge against Thoronir, the proprietor.

When the guard first came across the Bosmer, who was trying to stuff a strange looking pick into the lock, he did not waste his oppurtunity. Slowly and carefully drawing his sword, he approached, trying to make as little noise as possible. This was a task easier said than done, given that he was wearing plate armor, but through some miracle of the Divines that elf did not notice him. The guard could hear him muttering something under his breath, most of it intelligible, only a few words clear enough to be plucked from the gibberish.

"Key my ass...lying daedra lord, who'd have thought...not worth the pay..."

Keeping an eye on the Bosmer's hands – Talos only knew what sort of weaponry the thin-framed killer had hidden up his sleeves – the guard rested the tip of the blade on the his shoulder, right near the nape of the neck, and cleared his throat.

The elf froze, the only hint of movement being a slight twitch of the ears. Then he slowly turned around, and the guard managed to get a good look at his face. His face, like the rest of him, was fairly thin and sharp, with defined features and an upturned nose that could only belong to someone out to make trouble. His hair was fair and messy, the front of it sticking upwards in a carefully manufactured manner, and his eyes were a glimmering green. "Hello, good sir!" he said, a convincingly cheerful smile spreading across his face. "How has your patrol been? Now, I'm sure this looks like something it's not, so let me cut off your needless accusations and inform you that this shop is actually the shop of my long-lost brother, and I was hoping to surprise him with the news of our relation as soon as he woke up!"

The guard snorted. "Do you honestly expect me to believe such a story?"

"Of course not," the elf retorted. "I just needed the few seconds for it to turn into the new day so I could do this."

Suddenly the air around them shifted with magicka, and the Bosmer disappeared into thin air. Clearly, he'd been expecting the guard to be befuddled by the trick long enough for him to make is escape. But the guard had a few tricks of his own.

The effects granted by birthsign spell were more difficult to dispel than those of a mundane spell, but the guard had several years of experience in the matter. One spell was all it took, and there the elf was, several footsteps away, startled and swearing. The guard lunged forward with a fearsome determination, tackling the assassin and bringing them both crashing to the cobble below.

"You've committed your last crime, scum," the guard growled.

The elf sighed, his cheek flat on the cobble in bitter defeat. "I guess begging for mercy is out of the question, then."

* * *

**A/N: Cherry was quick to point out that my old writing was very flat and bland, and a bit over the top about emotions. I'm hoping this new version is a lot less so. What do you guys think? Feel free to give me as much critique as you think I need! The more in-depth, the better! (Also let me know if I made any typos or formatting errors. I've gotten better about those, but they still crop up from time to time!)**

**- Kathi**


	2. No Mere Chance

**A/N - I would apologize for it having taken so long on getting this chapter done, but let me put it this way: the original chapter 2 of Unlikely Heroes is 2800 words long. This chapter? Is over 5200. I nearly doubled the wordcount. So yeah, it's going to take me longer to get all of this done.**

**As for why it's all so much longer, I wanted to elongate the time Rosemonde and Ivar spend imprisoned together at the the suggestion of Cherry (heart dot png). She suggested giving a bit more starting establishment of their personalities and their relationship, and to "give them enough time to hate each other, but not enough for them to like each other." Which is excellent advice, so of course I took it.**

**I do hope you enjoy this version, and a very big thank you to my wonderful girlfriend-slash-beta reader Cherry for helping me out!**

**Guest- Thank you! I'm glad to see that people think my writing is an improvement!**

* * *

___ I was born eighty-seven years ago. For sixty-five years I've ruled as Tamriel's Emperor. But for all these years, I have never been the ruler of my own dreams. I have seen the gates of Oblivion, beyond which no waking eye may see. Behold, in darkness a doom sweeps the land. This is the twenty-seventh of Last Seed, in the year of Akatosh four-thirty-three. These are the closing days of the Third Era...And the final hours of my life._

* * *

___The Twenty-First of Last Seed, 3E433_

* * *

Ivar Llandovery woke up, not quite bothering to open his eyes yet, to the sound of quietness.

Not silence; silence was different. Silence was purer, with no soft breathing or dripping water breaking the void between words. Silence was that moment just before someone truly fell asleep, when their senses dulled to the outside world and it was just them and their thoughts.

This was worse. This was just plain old quiet, with all the little annoying sounds that accompanied it. Quiet and cold and the sensation of water seeping through the thin cloth between his back and the bold, hard floor he was laying on. It took him a few moments to register the significance of the last of those, and immediately sat bolt upright, eyes flying open only to see naught but gray cobbled bricks all around him. His hands flew to his torso, confirming what he suspected to be true. Someone had taken his shrouded leathers and replaced them with the ragged shirt of a vagabond and a pair of pants that felt like they had been made out of a rucksack. His feet, thank Sithis, were clad as well, though given the shoddy craftsmanship of the sandals that was unlikely to last long.

He glanced around, running a stark green gaze over his surroundings. This cell was a little larger than he was used to, with a strange rectangular alcove making up a large portion of the nearest wall. A few manacles hung from the walls, rusted well beyond use. Ivar was more than grateful for that. He'd no interest in having his arms wrenched from his shoulders. He couldn't see very well into the cell across from his, as it lacked the high-placed window his cell did, but he was sure that he could see a dark figure at the far end of it

This was not a new situation to him. Ivar had spent more than his fair share of days in within the walls of prison, and he'd eventually learned to adapt... and come prepared. He ran a hand through the back of his thick, light blonde hair until he found what he was looking for; a single lockpick, hidden among the messy locks just above his neck. Taking great care not to break it – he only had the one, after all – he slid it out of his hair and scrambled to his feet.

It was then that he noticed the Breton huddled in the corner.

His first though was that she was a right mess. She was very small, around the same height as he was, which was saying something considering she was clearly of Breton descent and he was a proud Bosmer. Her skin was an almost ashen pale, sallow from lack of sunlight and possibly lack of sleep, if the circles under her eyes were any indication. Her hair was a dark shade of either red or brown, though it was hard to with all the dirt and dust in it. It was ragged and matter and fell loosely over her shoulders, only serving to emphasize her haggard appearance. She was wearing rags similar to his, thought if the looseness of them was any indication she fit them a lot worse. Ivar was almost certain that if he were to lift the hem of her shirt up a bit, he could count each and every one of her ribs. The only difference in their attire was the iron cuffs on her arms, one on each wrist, that ebbed a faint green light. Ivar recognized them as the same cuffs that guards put on dangerous magic-wielding convicts, to keep them from simply blowing up the surrounding area in an attempt to escape. So his new cellmate was a mage, then.

The most startling part of the Breton's appearance, though, was her eyes. Not the color of them, though the shade of hazel they were wasn't exactly commonplace. No, what was startling about her eyes was the hollow fear in them as she stared in his general direction (not directly _at_ him, he noted). She'd clearly been in here a lot longer than he had.

"Hello," he said bluntly. After a few seconds without a response from the Breton, he continued, hoping to drag information out of her with humor. "So, how is it here? The last prison I was in was horribly inconsiderate. Forgot to feed me half the time."

Nothing.

"How about you? How'd you get stuck in here?" Ivar never considered himself the friendliest of individuals – who needed pretty words when a pretty dagger did the trick twice as well? – but he knew how to play nice when the situation demanded it. And it was always a good idea to make friends with one's cell mate, especially if one's plans for escape failed.

His attempts at benevolence, however, went ignored, as she simply stared at him some more. He sighed. "Look, woman, I'm trying to be nice here. The least you could do is at least attempt something resembling an answer."

From the cell opposite his... _theirs_, he corrected himself... there was a scoff as a snide voice piped up through the quiet. "Don't even bother getting an answer from _her_, wood elf." The figure in the cell stepped forward, revealing himself to be a white-haired, haughty eyed Dunmer, with an expression on his face that would be better suited for a high elf. "That stuck-up harlot's been here since Sun's Height and she _still_ hasn't said a word to anyone."

"Sun's Height, eh?" Ivar mused. "That's a long time to go with out using your voice. Any hint as to why?"

"Do I look like I know?" The Dunmer snarled. "Furthermore, do I look like I _care?_ She's just another rat to me, here to do nothing but to rot or hang. Not my business why she isn't talking."

Ivar tutted at him, shaking his head in a slow, lazy manner. "Now, now, that was just rude," he said, his tone that of ultimate insincerity. "How could you be so inconsiderate to someone in this state? You should be ashamed of yourself, mister...mister...Damn it." Taking cheap shots at someone was significantly harder when he didn't even know said someone's name.

"Dreth," the Dunmer said, his voice hardening into ice. "And I can't imagine why you'd give a damn, Bosmeri trash. Aren't you more concerned with escaping this prison and fleeing back to your precious forests? I've heard captivity does horrible things to Bosmer. They simply wilt away if they can't frolic with the butterflies and the unicorns at least once a day." He spat. "Pathetic."

Ivar let out a low growl, his thin eyebrows knitting together in frustration. Oh, so _that's_ how this arrogant arse wanted to play, huh? Well, he could play this game as well as any Dunmer, better even. Just because he _could_ play nice doesn't he _had_ to. "Well, that depends, ash-breath," he said, a satisfied smirk crawling across his features as Dreth's scowl deepened. "I heard if dark 'mer go even a single hour without grovelling to Azura, they all but keel over. Is that true, Dreth?"

The other elven prisoner looked furious, and opened his mouth as if to shout some Dunmeri curse at Ivar. But then he paused, and his expression of rage turned to one of pure smugness. "At least I'm getting out of here alive," he bragged. "They'll release me any day now. But you two, you and her?" He nodded towards the Breton, who only now seemed to be registering that the conversation was taking place. "You two are both going to _die_ in here! Do you hear me? You're going to _die!_"

"You're sure of that?"

It wasn't Ivar who had spoken. Startled, the two elves turned to face the Breton woman, who had just now spoken. She was still crouched in the corner, but the look on her face was no longer one of perpetual shock. She was staring at Dreth. "You've been here longer then I have. Much longer. What if they've forgotten about you? It's what you deserve, right? After all..." her voice dropped in volume a bit. "Anyone who gets thrown in here deserves to be forgotten."

"Hah? Forget me, Valen Dreth?" The Dunmer snapped. "How dare you. You may never see your name mentioned in stories to come, but believe me, I am of far greater import than you! Than either of you!" With that, he stalked back into the darkness of his cell, muttering under his breath.

Ivar watched him skulk away with a sharp laugh. "Oh, that was beautiful! I haven't seen a tantrum like that in weeks!" He looked at the Breton, whose gaze had once more turned to the wall. "I thought you weren't talking?" he said.

"I wasn't," she replied. "I just couldn't stand to hear him talk any more. I've been dealing with it far longer than you have, so trust me when I say it gets tiring after a while. And besides," she added, "you stood up for me. I just did the same."

"Stood up for... oh." Ivar chuckled. "Well, believe me, love, I certainly wasn't doing it for your benefit. I was just trying to see how I could best get him riled up. It's always fun seeing someone so high-and-mighty crumble."

"Ah," the Breton said.

She still hadn't answered any of his previous questions, but she was talking. Ivar wasn't certain whether that was a step up or not. Perhaps the time he spent sharing a cell with her would shed illumination on that front. He didn't particularly care about her on a personal level, but he never liked sharing a space with someone he didn't know anything about. It left him with a certain sense of vulnerability, feeling like he was at a disadvantage by not knowing anything about a potential adversary.

Besides, he was curious about her. While she hardly looked like the criminal sort, Ivar had enough experience in illegal matters to know that looks didn't really matter. After all, stuff him in a pair of dress pants and fancy boots and he'd look almost presentable. What struck him as odd was her demeanor. She seemed resigned to the whole "life in prison" thing, even going so far as to say the three of them deserved this life. Had she already tried begging for lenience, only to have that fail? Was she taking the fall for someone else?

He settled into the other corner of the cell, tucking the lockpick that he almost forgot he was holding back into his short hair. He'd escape once he sated his curiosity. After all, this girl couldn't keep quiet forever, right?

He'd get some answers.

* * *

_The Twenty-Fourth of Last Seed, __3E433_

* * *

Ivar had almost forgotten that the Breton hadn't spoke for a month before he arrived. She didn't speak to him at all during the first few days of his quasi-voluntary – he was quite certain he could escape whenever he wanted – imprisonment, except for a mumbled "thank you" whenever he handed her her meal from the warden. Though he wasn't sure why she was thanking him; starvation was preferable to the sludge they were fed. Ivar would often find himself shoving away half-eaten bowls of stew and not even bothering to touch the bread

Regardless, she'd still not told him her name or what she'd done, no matter how many times he asked. So he decided it was time for a slightly more underhanded tactic.

When the prison warden came down to deliver their second and final meal of the day, Ivar took the bowls of sludge trying to pass itself off as soup, as per usual. "Thank you, good sir," he said, his voice dripping with pure sarcasm. "I so missed the taste of your cook's special candle-wax-and-mold soup. If I swallow fast enough, I can barely taste the rat dung!"

The warden gave Ivar a look that suggested that if he didn't shut his mouth right now there would be actual rat dung in his soup the next morning. "It's rabbit stew. "It's more than a sick killer like you deserves," the warden said dryly, before turning on his heel and walking back up the stairs to the bastion tower.

Chuckling, Ivar turned around to see the Breton woman standing there, gazing at him expectantly. He shook his head. "Oh, no. You want this," he lightly shook one of the bowls of soup, careful not to spill any, "you answer some questions."

"No," The Breton said. "I thought I made it clear I didn't want to talk to you about it."

"Yes, well, I'm not to keen on sharing a prison cell with someone I know nothing about," Ivar replied. "That might work for you, but I wasn't trained to accept ignorance. So, either you tell me who you are and how you landed yourself in here, or you don't get to eat."

For a few long seconds the Breton was still as a statue, evenly gazing at him with a dull look in her eyes. Then her fist collided with Ivar's face.

It was a very well-thrown punch, he had to admit. He went flying back, dropping both bowls of soup. As his head collided with the bars of the cell door there was a small _snap_ that he really hoped was his skull cracking or something along those lines. It was preferable to the more likely alternative.

As he slid down to the ground, more baffled than hurt, he noticed that one of the bowls of soup had managed to land face-up and was still half-full. He reached for it, but before he could grab it, the Breton knelt down and picked it up, taking a few steps back and giving him a look that dared him to try and retrieve it. Ivar sighed in defeat and turned his attention to more pressing matters. He lightly touched the back of his head, running his fingers through the spot where he had tucked his lockpick.

He found it in two pieces. "Damn it," he groaned. "Thank you. Thank you so much for ruining my only escape plan. I appreciate it so much."

"You didn't seem very eager to escape," The Breton pointed out, raising the soup bowl to her lips and taking a sip. She grimaced at it. "Besides, you're here for a reason, aren't you? You did something wrong?"

"Well, someone thought it was right enough to spend a lot of time and money trying to get someone to do it, so clearly that's subjective. Besides, I don't really believe in justice and silly sentiment like that, and I certainly don't believe in just letting myself being locked away for the rest of my life for an assassination I couldn't even carry out."

The Breton stared at him. "You're Dark Brotherhood?" she asked, taking a backwards step that looked almost instinctive in nature.

"No, I'm a humble cabbage farmer, here for stealing a rival farmer's crops. Yes, I'm an assassin," he said. "A thief, too, sometimes, but I don't make a living off of that. What about you? Did you steal a beggar's spoon? Wander into somewhere you weren't supposed to be?" He rubbed at his cheek and winced. He was going to have one hell of a bruise the next day. "Got into a bar fight?"

The Breton looked down at the soup-stained floor. "No, it's... it was worse than that. More complicated."

"Oh?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Ivar threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, come on! You can't entice me with nibbles of your past and then completely shut me off like that!"

"I can and I will," she retorted

"Look, how about you just tell me your name? You broke my pick, it's the least I could do."

"You blackmailed me with food!" the Breton exclaimed. After a long, weary pause, she sighed. "Rosemonde Rousseau. That's my name. Happy?"

Rosemonde Rousseau. What a very _Breton_ name. "Ecstatic," Ivar grumbled, rubbing at his bare hands. He always hated going without gloves. He could tolerate the loss of the rest of his gloves, but for some reason even he couldn't put his finger on, going without gloves made him feel _naked_.

"You know," Rosemonde said, giving him a sharp look, "you've kept bothering me about _my_ name for several days now, but you've never actually told me yours."

"Ivar Llandovery."

"That doesn't sound like a Bosmer name."

"It's not, actually," Ivar said. "My mother and father are Imperials. Raised me since I was an infant, dropped on the doorstep of Dibella's chapel in Anvil." While he wasn't the type to share his whole life story to the first person that asked – part of being an assassin was learning to embrace the shadows of anonymity – he figured that maybe if he told his cellmate more than she'd asked for, she'd feel obligated to do the same. Many people cut from what he assumed to be Rosemonde's cloth were the type to give equal to what they were

Apparently his efforts were wasted, however, as she simply have a curt "ah," a nod, and turned back to her soup.

Ivar let out an incoherent grumble. Not only had his plan blown up in his face like an evoker's spell gone wrong, but now he had lost his only lockpick. He'd have to find another way out of this desolate pit they called a prison.

Maybe with enough time, he could get on the warden's good side...

* * *

_The Twenty-Seventh of Last Seed, __3E433_

* * *

As it turned out, he didn't have enough time.

Ivar awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, a strange occurrence for him. He'd no Vaermina-granted nightmares to jar him from his slumber, nor had he any Dark Brother or Sister around to wake him for a task. At least, he thought not. Lucien did have a penchant for waking people up in the dead of night while concealed with an invisibility spell.

Confused, he slowly sat up, placing a bare hand against the edge of his sleeping mat, sharp mer eyes scanning the darkness. There was no nearly-imperceptible flicker of movement in the empty air that betrayed the use of invisibility, which ruled out the possibility of it being Lucien. The only sounds he could here were the light, steady breathing of the sleeping Rosemonde in the other corner, and the faint cry of an owl far outside his cell. Even Dreth in the opposite cell was quiet.

Then Ivar heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

"Oy, Rosie," he hissed, kicking her squarely in the shoulder. He'd taken to calling her the nickname as soon as he realized how much it bothered her.

Rosemonde awoke not nearly as suddenly as him, making a noise of agitation "Don't call me Rosie" she groaned, rolling over and glaring at him wearily. "What do you want?"

"There's someone coming."

"Mrmph. It's just the warden coming down with breakfast."

"Rosie, it's the middle of the damned night. Why would the warden be coming down for breakfast?"

"Maybe they're coming to get you!" Dreth half-hissed, half-

Rosemonde sat up, staring at him in confusion. She opened her mouth to speak, probably to tell him he was mad or to leave her alone. Then a voice that most certainly did not belong to the warden split the air, and her look of irritated bemusement turned to that of a startled deer. "My sons... they're dead, aren't they." It wasn't a question.

Ivar struggled to find the words to describe this voice. It was a man's voice, deep, filled with a richness greater than a hundred thousand septims, as just as much weariness. Ivar staggered to his feet, peering into the darkness, hoping to discern the owner of that voice.

"We don't know that, sire." A different voice said. The bearer of this voice was female, speaking a firm manner yet incredibly respectful manner. Ivar pulled back a couple inches warily as the second voice continued. "The missive only said that they were attacked. We've no idea of their current condition."

"No," the first voice responded with an alarming certainty. "They're dead. I know it."

A few moments passed before the second voice spoke, with the barest hint of a sigh nestled into the words. "Sire, my biggest concern is getting you out of the city safely." Then the familiar warm glow of a torch illuminated the darkness, and a small handful of people rounded the stairway corner and approached Ivar and Rosemonde's cell. "What's this? What are these prisoners doing here? This cell was supposed to be off-limits."

A third voice. "I'm not sure, ma'am. Mix-up in the guard, maybe. I sent a message to Guard-Captains that they were to keep this cell clear of prisoners until we completed our business here... perhaps they didn't read it thoroughly?"

"Or the missive was intercepted. Damn it, Glenroy."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

During this little exchange, Ivar had taken the opportunity to run an analytic gaze over the four in front of him, and he was startled. Two Imperials, one Breton, and one Redguard, the latter significantly younger than the former three. Three of them – The Breton, one of the Imperials, and the Redguard – were wearing strange armor that Ivar had never seen before. It was elaborately made, more decorative that functional, with gold and teal embellishing the gray steel the majority of the armor was made out of. The way the armor was designed reminded Ivar vaguely of pictures he had seen in books about Akavir. Whoever these people were, they were important.

However, they were not nearly as important as the final individual. This person was an elderly Imperial man, his hair as white as the caps of the Jerall mountains and his face lined with age and responsibility. His robes were rich shades of ruby and violet, lined with gold embroidery that would make even Palonirya from the Market District gawk. What drew Ivar's gaze the most, however, was the necklace that hung from the man's necklace; a red, diamond-shaped gemstone about the size of Ivar's fist, inlaid in gold. All the golden rings and bejeweled pendants Ivar had pilfered from his kills seemed like worthless festival baubles in comparison.

If Ivar had to make a guess at who the one with the richest, deepest voice had been, he'd wager it was this man.

The Breton woman, who radiated an aura of authority that practically glowed in the dim prison, glared at him and Rosemonde. "We don't have time to worry about this. Get the gate open." As the Imperial guard stepped forward with a hurried "yes, captain," key in his hand gleaming in the torchlight, the woman turned that authority to the two prisoners. "You two! Back against the far wall right now! This is nothing for you two to interfere with!"

Ivar looked over at Rosemonde, who seemed to be trying to melt into the bricks of the corner she'd backed into, before glancing back to the scene on the other side of the cell door. "We... are against the far wall," he said flatly.

The captain wasn't even the slightest bit fazed. "Good. Stay that way or I'll run you through myself."

"Oh, goodness, what a palatable personality," Ivar deadpanned, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall with the most bored expression he could muster on his face. "Oh, how glad I am to have met you. My heart soars. Really." He stole a glance towards Rosemonde again, this time trying to gauge her reaction. Right now, it was at a solid "stunned realization," with her jaw slightly dropped and her eyes as wide and as round as coins as she watched the cell door swing open and the four strangers walk in.

Ivar watched with a simmering curiosity as the captain led the way, quickly approaching the alcove that Rosemonde was huddled near. She reached out and grabbed one of the bricks that made up the wall and, to Ivar's surprise, pushed inwards. There was an earsplitting stony groan and the sound of rock against rock, and then one wall of the alcove just dropped into the ground, revealing a worn and rocky tunnel leading downwards into the darkness.

Now, why didn't I think of that? Ivar thought. Granted, secret exits in prisoner's cells were hardly common, but he at least should had checked the walls for a possible means of escape after his pick broke instead of shrugging and giving up.

He'd make a joke about how he was getting old and incompetent if he weren't only twenty-three.

As Ivar mulled over the nature of the alcove and where the tunnel led, he noticed that the elder Imperial man was staring at him. The man had very blue eyes; a particularly posh poet would have likened them the the color of the Rumare on a cloudless day, or perhaps the morning glories that climbed the walls of Skingrad.

Ivar wasn't feeling poetic. "Problem?" he asked, his voice flat.

The man's expression shifted into something unrecognizable. "You..." he said quietly. "I've seen you..." His gaze darkened slightly, and he clenched his jaw with a resigned determination. "So this is indeed the day... Gods give me strength."

Ivar raised a brow in disbelief. "You can't have seen me," he scoffed. "I don't 'get seen.'" Unless you're an alert city guardsman and I was stupid enough to let my guard down. "And anyways, I've never seen you, old man. Just who are you, anyways?"

The Imperial guard, the one who had apparently failed his task at message delivering of all things, gave him a look sharper than any sword. "Watch your tongue, elf!" he snapped. "That is the Emperor of Tamriel you're speaking to! Show some respect!"

Ivar heard Rosemonde inhale sharply. He was not nearly as impressed as she was, however. "Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh, rule of all Tamriel?" he said. "Oh, was illustrious of visitors. Forgive me for being so rude, sire!" He dipped into a mock bow, grinning as widely as he could to prove a point. Namely, that he wasn't about the genuinely start grovelling to someone because of their fancy title. "I would never have guessed that little old me was in the company of the Emperor himself. Granted, I probably should have, with those robes. If you're trying to escape, as I inferred from your enlightening little chat, perhaps you would have more success with an outfit that's slightly less ostentatious."

The Redguard soldier opened his mouth to speak, probably about to say something along the lines of quit disrespecting the emperor, you criminal scum, but the emperor spoke first. "It is understandable that you do not believe me, but what I speak now is the truth. Your destiny is intertwined with that of Tamriel, and soon you will see it as I did in my dreams."

Ivar let out a hrmph. So, the man ruling the emperor for the past sixty-odd years was a madman. Good to know. "Trust me, old man, my destiny doesn't intertwine with anything except itself. I make my own path."

"So do we all," the emperor replied. "But what path can be avoided whose end is fixed by the almighty gods?"

"Mine," Ivar growled. "So, your majesty, what brings such an esteemed old sod like you down here? Surely you didn't come here just to have a chat with this poor old Bosmer criminal?" He spared yet another glance at Rosemonde, who seemed to have gone into a state of shock. "And she's not exactly much of a conversationalist."

Sadness flickered across Emperor Uriel's face. "Assassins attacked my sons," he said. "And now they seek me. My Blades," he was surely referring to his trio of strangely-armored soldiers, "are leading my out of the city via a secret escape route in an attempt to evade them. A route which, by no mere chance, leads through your cell." He gestured to the passageway, as if Ivar didn't already know what he was talking about.

So the emperor was fleeing. And these Blades expected Ivar to show him respect? Face an assassin with dignity, or you insult the hard work they put into ending your life. "I still don't see what all of this has to do with my 'destiny,'" he snapped. "So what if the route leads through my cell? That was chance, wasn't it? I could have just as easily been placed in the cell to the left of this one; in fact, if what I heard is correct, that's what was supposed to have happened."

Emperor Uriel shook his head. "Perhaps the gods placed you here so that we may meet," he suggested. "Perhaps not. But it was not chance that led you here, nor will it be chance that leads me to where I go."

"Speaking of going, sire," the captain interjected, "we really must get moving."

The Emperor gave a single nod. "Of course, Captain Renault." With that, he was led by the captain and the imperial guard into the tunnel that led out of the cell. The Redguard followed, but not without shooting a final glance at Ivar and Rosemonde. "Guess I can't really stop you from following," he said. "The passage doesn't close from the other side. Follow if you want, but doesn't cause any trouble, got it?"

Ivar shrugged. "I've no care for business of the empire. Go play your little games of intrigue, my only wish is to leave this cell and return back to my work." He left out the part where hiswork involved killing people for coin. He had a feeling that wouldn't go over so well.

The Redguard didn't exactly seem satisfied with that answer, but he let it go and followed his comrades and emperor into the tunnels. Stretching, Ivar made a few steps to go forward. "Come on, Rosie. Freedom awaits."

Rosemonde stared at him. "What, you're going to leave? You can't!"

"I can, actually. You head the man. 'Follow if you want.' Well, I want to follow, and I want to escape. I got permission from a bodyguard of the damned emperor, I'll take that as pardon enough. Not that I need a pardon, mind, but if I get caught again it'll be good for keeping me from ending up in yet another jail cell." He paused at the entrance to the tunnels. "You're coming, right?"

Rosemonde shook her head emphatically. "No," she said. "I deserve to be in here, after what I did."

Ivar threw his hands up in exasperation. "To be damned with what you deserve, Rosie! If I judged myself based on some arbitrary sense of justice, I'd have thrown myself onto the sword of the nearest city guard six years ago! Look deep down within yourself and ask yourself this: is spending the rest of your pitiable life in a jail cell what you really, really want?"

After what felt like an eternity, but was most likely only a few seconds, Rosemonde shook her head. "Fine," she said. "I'll go."

"Excellent!" Ivar exclaimed. "Come on, then. Freedom's calling, and I've every intention of answering."

* * *

**A/N - ****Feel free to give me as much critique as you think I need! The more in-depth, the better! (Also let me know if I made any typos or formatting errors. I've gotten better about those, but they still crop up from time to time!)**

**- Kathi**


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